


Orphan Annie

by grimey_gal



Category: Annabelle (2014), The Conjuring (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Demon, Lore - Freeform, Writing Commission, a what if type of situation, baalberith - Freeform, posession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21905557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimey_gal/pseuds/grimey_gal
Summary: All she ever wanted was a home.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	Orphan Annie

_ When other girls were dreaming about love, she dreamt of love too, but in an entirely different context - the ones they took for granted.  _

_ \-  _ Donna Lynn Hope

She has seen enough colorless ads on department store display televisions to know that dolls were supposed to be loved. She still remembers the box she had been attached into, and the faces of little girls who came so close to buying her, before being ushered away by parents who were unconvinced that their daughter needed another toy. She remembers the hours of waiting, watching the cycle pass from night to day, and again, and once more. The different rushes of crowds and the slow drizzle of straggling passerbys. 

She still feels warm when she recalls the first time she was finally taken off of the shelf. It was a blonde girl, with wide blue eyes, and it was her birthday. She’d had both sets of parents, and was well off. She remembers wondering, as the girl cradled her and walked her up the grand staircase to a double front door, bronzed handles and all, what made the little girl want  _ her  _ all so much, when she already had everything.

The girl’s name was Greta, and she was so sheltered by her parents that toys were her only escape. Greta was creative and intelligent, and with the resources and time given to her, she created many things. She had cities erected all around the walls of her room, with airports and train stations and shops. She had a nanny and a piano teacher who visit twice a week, and a french tutor who came every other weekend. 

“And who is this?” they’d begun to ask, when Greta began to tote her around everywhere.

“Annabelle,” Greta said, and that was the first time she’d heard her name. It sounded like the piano mezzo, soft and beautiful. Annabelle began to hear her name in everything that Greta did, when she sang, when she had practice with her teacher, out in the yard, when she spoke to her as if they were dearest friends. 

Greta had had many other dolls, beautifully exquisite. There were porcelain dolls with sweet faces, angels with a halo and wings, with long curly hair that glistened in the light - all much more gorgeous and priceless than Annabelle. Greta had many beautiful things at her disposal, but it became quite clear that she loved none of them more than Annabelle, and Annabelle felt that surely, she had found her purpose in life, as Greta tucked in with her under soft duvets. She remembers looking up at the ornate ceiling, wondering if the feeling she had was what would be described as contentment. 

She remembers the unfortunate moment that she knew she would never feel this way again. 

The Highglasses were not only extremely wealthy, they also came with many enemies. The night Annabelle lost Greta, she remembers the house, burning to the ground, sitting outside it at a safe distance, hearing Greta’s dying screams, helpless. Unable to stop anything. She remembers the footfalls of someone beside her, speaking in hushed tones with a counterpart. It was a language different from the Highglasses, one she had never heard and did not understand. But she felt a dark heaviness settle into her, and she knew at once that everything had changed. 

She does not understand it right away, what it all means. She wants to cry big wet tears, like the ones she’d seen in Saturday morning cartoons with Greta, curled on the couch under her arm, a quilt over there legs. She still hears Greta’s voice, calling her name. More than anything, she still wishes she could have called back, even if just once. She is resigned to sitting where she is, watching a show, a sick farce.

Perhaps things were too good to be true. With Greta, life was beyond compare. She had always knows she was out of place amongst the porcelain and fine-china dolls. They are in ruin now, and so is she. Although merely singed, she cannot feel quite the same as she had. She stays there, forced to watch the horrors unfold until the first responders and police force arrive. The Highglasses are declared all dead, and no one can hear the anguish she feels. She is taken in by a female chief, who is a single woman with a child. 

This is when he begins to speak within her, and she knows his name.  _ Baalberith _ knows everything and all things about her, and he whispers of darkness and death. She can smell blood on his breath, and hear termites in his teeth. He says her name, and each time, she feels as if she remembers Greta and her music less and less. The more she tries to cling to the memories, the louder he whispers, harsh and unforgiving. 

_ You are naught but a vessel _ , he says.  _ Greta is done. Annabelle has begun _ . 

The daughter of the police chief is a wild contrast to Greta. Her name, Annabelle discovers, is Penelope Green, and she has tight curls and warm brown skin. But the first time she holds her, Annabelle wants to cry, and she wants to go to a home that does not exist anymore. She finds it hard, anchoring the deep pain of losing Greta, and she hardly notices when Baalberith speaks her name to Penelope for the first time.

“What should I call you, huh? You look like a Maxine, or a Carrie,” Penelope Green says. 

_ Annabelle _ , Baalberith speaks, before Annabelle can stop him. She could not stop him anyways, she knows this. She does not even have the power to try. She can see the struggle in Penelope’s eyes, who wants desperately to choose between the names she had preferred, but it comes anyways, sliding off of her tongue. 

“Annabelle,” Penelope says, eyes wide and copper, two identical pennies. Annabelle knows she is beautiful, and she knows that something will come of this. “Alright, I think I can feel that. You’re my friend now, okay?”

Baalberith seems to be satisfied in the moment, and there is peace for the next few weeks. Penelope is not the duchess that Greta was, but she has the voice of an angel, and she is a brilliant writer, even at her young years of ten. She has rich characters and stories, and she tells them to Annabelle through the long hours of the day. Annabelle finds herself missing her when she is away at school, and longing for the sound of the doorknob signaling her return. 

She tries not to open herself to Penelope, but it is hard when she catches the dimples in her cheeks, or rests in her arms as they curl under a blanket at  _ Ti-Ti Loretta’s  _ house, watching the Railway Children on a small television set. Penelope crushes stove-top popcorn against Annabelle’s mouth, and Annabelle is sure that Penelope knows that she cannot eat, not really, but the sentiment is melting, nonetheless. Penelope chatters throughout the entire film, but Annabelle cannot seem to mind, as the girl is much more entertaining. 

Annabelle finds herself living in Penelope’s stories, and the first time Penelope tells her a story in which she is the beautiful heroine, she finds herself overwhelmed. 

“You are the bravest girl in your neighborhood, and no one dares to cross you. That’s why I knew I had to be your best friend,” Penelope says.

Annabelle doesn’t feel brave, but she is warmed by honor of how Penelope sees her. She brings her to life in ways that she had never felt possible. Sometimes, she forgets it is Penelope who guides her hands, and feels as if she moves on her own. 

It is when she opens her heart at last, ready to heal, when Penelope’s aunt comes home to break the news that her mother has died on the field. Penelope does not cry, just asks questions and tries to understand. Annabelle feels her squeeze fingers around her cotton stuffed arm, and thinks she has truly never meant anyone so full of courage. 

They sleep together with Aunt Loretta, and Penelope holds her tighter than ever, and she wishes she could do more. This is when Baalberith speaks again. 

_ A home of misery is a home to thrive in, Annabelle,  _ he growls. She panics.  _ We must commence. We are harbingers of death and despair. I will speak through you _ . 

She does not want this, but he does not ask. She realizes quickly that he does not care to ask and he never will. She watches as the blanket slides down to the floor, and Penelope is dragged off the bed and out of the door, screaming her aunt awake. 

She cannot move. She can never move. But she can hear the parade of terror as Aunt Loretta tries to bring her little niece down from the wall. She pleads with Baalberith, but he is silent, allowing the trauma to sweep through the house. The sirens come soon, and the echoes of Aunt Loretta crying stick to the walls.

Penelope calls her name, and this hurts the worst. She cannot save her dear Penelope, in the same way she could not save her darling Greta. What is the point of being a doll, she wonders, if she cannot give to her child in need, especially in an hour like this? 

“I want Annabelle!” Penelope cries, and there are armed officers and medical physicians who search the house. Annabelle is lifted up by the hand and taken out into the living room, where she can finally see and assess the damage. The place is completely destroyed, and Penelope is bruised, bloodied, and there are patches in her head where hair has been forcefully ripped out. 

“Don’t hold her like that, you’re hurting her arm,” Penelope chides the officer, who adjusts how he holds her and gingerly lays her into Penelope’s arms. 

Aunt Loretta is taken in for questioning, despite her and Penelope’s cries of dismay and disagreement. Penelope is taken with the ambulance, and she clings to Annabelle tighter than she’d ever had before. The lights are so bright, and Penelope has a glassy look in her eyes that weighs Annabelle down more than ever. She only hopes that her closeness brings her girl even the smallest of comforts.

However, things only escalate for the worst in the hospital, and Annabelle watches a second love die before her eyes.

No one can point to the source. No one can find a face to blame. Every intern and employee in the hospital office watch each other in suspicion and trepidation. Annabelle is nearly forgotten, until one of the nurses comes across her and tosses her into the garbage disposal in disgust. 

“That thing was so creepy,” the nurse says to his partner, who laughs casually. “The things are so ugly.” 

Annabelle had never been called ugly before. Somehow though, she had always felt she was. Baalberith whispers to her in her shock and wounding, the ripe scent of demise close at hand. She lays atop the pile of refuse, staring at a blue sky and hearing black words. Just under her skin, he stays muttering. 

She tries to ignore him, and thinks on Greta, and Penelope, for they had loved her. But thoughts of them only bring a deeper sorrow, and she finds herself unable to escape. Even her own mind has been overtaken, and she has no corner for herself to grieve as any doll who had lost their child should be allowed. 

_ I will not love again,  _ she thinks to herself, and Baalberith hisses in delight and approval. 

But she is picked up weeks later by another small child, a girl with dark hair and sad eyes. Her clothes are dirty and her shoes have holes in them, and the first time she spots Annabelle among the trash she is digging amongst she squeals and holds her up as if she has come upon buried treasure. For all she is lacking, she may as well have. 

Baalberith shines hungry teeth, and speaks to her immediately. “Annabelle- you are so special! I didn’t know that dolls could talk. I have to take you home with me!” 

And she does, and there are seven siblings with their parents in a household, along with a grandmother. Unlike Greta and Penelope, Belinda has a full and lively life, despite the lack of material things. Belinda is quick to share Annabelle with her sisters and brothers, eager to tell them of just how unique Annabelle is. Baalberith does not speak, but the siblings still crowd around Annabelle, each wanting a turn. 

“She’s so dirty, Belinda!” the grandmother reprimands her. “Where did you get her, the slums?”

“She’s  _ mine,  _ Abuela, and I love her,” Belinda pleads. “Can’t she live here now? We are not so clean ourselves, anyways.”

The grandmother mutters something under her breath, but she does not berate Belinda further. Belinda is left to play with Annabelle and show her around the three room house. The parents sleep in the bedroom with the grandmother, and the children sleep in the living room on the couch and on a mattress on the floor. The clothes are in neat piles around the house, and each pile is for each member of the family. The nicer clothes are hung near the door, so they do not wrinkle. There is one bathroom, and everything is stacked and crowded on a tiny vanity. The father and mother work, and the grandmother stays at home to cook and care for the children. 

“It’s so nice to sleep with my brothers and sisters,” Belinda tells her. “Everything is so warm and cozy. You will love it, Annabelle.” 

_ Love _ . Annabelle hardens herself, but it is a challenge. If lying next to one beating heart was difficult, lying near several is excruciating. But the burden of two souls that she had lost left her at the crossroads. Either path she takes, she is hurting. The question is whether she hurts now or later. 

Without her choosing, it is later, as over the next few weeks she falls in love with Belinda and her family and has opened herself yet again. Despite her better judgment, she thinks that this time, things will be alright. She has not heard from Baalberith in quite a while, after all. He has been silent longer than usual. She begins to believe that he is not even within her anymore, and now she has been freed to finally live the life she has always desired, ever since her first conscious thoughts on the department shelf. 

_ I just want to be a doll _ , she cries inside, as Baalberith strikes once more, leaving Belinda’s home a source of trauma for the rest of Belinda’s life. It has been made clear, through the series of events leading up to it, that Annabelle is the source of the horror. Belinda is the sole survivor, and she takes Annabelle into her hands and shakes her angrily, tears in her eyes. 

“I trusted you!” she screams at her. Her eyes are bright and brimming, and the look of betrayal makes Annabelle wish that Belinda would rip her apart. She is sure that dolls cannot physically die, not really, but she still wishes all the same. Anything to make herself disappear in this moment. “I was always so nice to you! All I had was my family, and now I don’t even have you!” 

_ I’m sorry!  _ Annabelle wants to scream back. _It wasn't me!_ But she can say nothing as always, only watch through painted on eyes, and for the first time, she understands that this will always be her destiny. There is nothing she can say or do to sway Baalberith and his undeniable thirst for destruction and death. No suggestion, no play on words, no bargaining can persuade him from his path. 

Belinda tosses her to the ground, crying to the moon, alone. Annabelle cannot cry with her, but she wants nothing more than to be able to. Instead, she is imprisoned on the ground, suffering through Belinda’s wails for hours until someone finally finds her and picks her up, doing everything that Annabelle ever wanted to do. She watches a third love be carried away, and although the screams are loud in her head, she knows that no one will ever hear her. 

She is lying near the remains of the house on her lonesome for years. She watches as it crumbles before her. People come by, but no one buys it. They are frightened away or altogether too saddened by the aura surrounding it. Whenever a child is with a potential buyer, she is torn between desperately hoping that the child notices her and picks her up and wants her, and hoping that no one notices her at all. She can hear the screams still, of everyone she’s lost. The torturous cycle continues.  _ Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle! _

_ Annabelle _ . She does not want to hear that name anymore. But hear it she must, and hear it she does, over and over again, until her heart has broken and repaired itself into exhaustion. Each time, she falls for the trap of loving the arms she falls into, and each time again, she is broken as a result of her repetitive naivety. 

Until one day, she is not.

By the time a student nurse picks her up, examining her with a friend, she is numb. They have found her after yet another child arrived with her in tow into ICU, and did not survive. Annabelle can hardly count the amount of children whose lives she’s decimated against her will. She hardly remembers what Greta looked like, or how Penelope sounded when she sang to her. She cannot remember how many siblings Belinda had, or the Spanish words she had taught her. She hardly remembers any of them. She does not want to remember any of it, anyways. She does not consider it a loss. For the first time, even as she is gently cradled in a loving embrace, Annabelle feels nothing. She is orphaned of emotion. No hopes, no love. She has no thoughts in her head. 

_ Annabelle, _ Baalberith whispers yet again, and the two nurses’ eyes widen.

She is inanimate. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A writing commission. 
> 
> DM me if you would like to request a commission as well!


End file.
